Exploring the Universe
by radiantbaby
Summary: Martha is always studying the Doctor - it's a part of the inquisitiveness that will make her a great doctor some day. Sometimes he holds back from her - hides, even - but sometimes he shows her just she needs to see.  Ten/Martha


**Characters/Pairing: Ten/Martha**

**Prompt: 019. White [for 'doctorwho_100' - Claim: Ten/Martha]**

**Spoilers: None**

**Summary: 'As her eyes analyze the textures and shapes before her, she muses about how she probably wouldn't even be in medical school if she weren't so entranced with muscles stretched beneath skin, blood careering through veins, and bones interlocking much like lovers holding hands.'**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who et al, or things like this would be canon.**

**Author Notes: I am working on putting my fic from Teaspoon over here, so you'll see some old stories like this popping up. This one is from November of 2008, so some of you might have read it already. This story takes place soon after the events of my other 'doctorwho_100' stories, but can also be read on its own [all you need to know is that Ten/Martha are in a new, but tentative romantic relationship].**

**Thank you to my beta 'persiflage'. Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two if so inclined [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day].**

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Martha's gaze caresses the Doctor's skin as he sleeps, giving her a rare moment to enjoy all the alluring little details of his body, undisturbed.

As her eyes analyze the textures and shapes before her, she muses about how she probably wouldn't even be in medical school if she weren't so entranced with muscles stretched beneath skin, blood careering through veins, and bones interlocking much like lovers holding hands.

There is a beauty – _a perfection_ – to the human body, she thinks, though it is still all part of an enchanting mystery that she can't dare truly to fathom.

Still, even if she weren't almost a doctor, she thinks she might still find _his_ body perfect. Skinny, pale, freckled, lanky, and certainly _not_ human, but yes, still _absolutely perfect_.

(She has to laugh at herself for succumbing to such ridiculous idealizations. It makes her feel like a giddy little girl.

She hates feeling like a little girl.)

Sitting beside him, she tentatively reaches out to touch his skin, her fingertips ever so lightly caressing his astonishingly cold, almost-alabaster skin. Before she knew him, she's not sure she had ever seen skin so very white and pale, so untouched by the sun, and her thoughts flash back to one of the first times he was nude before her.

_"Never seen the sun," she'd observed of his skin, her hand moving down his chest._

"_Oh, I've seen many suns. Many stars," he'd countered, as if misunderstanding her (though she doubted he had)._

"_Not here, not this," she'd said, fingers curling to drag her knuckles against the soft downy hair of his belly, "this stays hidden. It's like so much of you, really – always hidden from the light."_

_He'd grabbed her wrist then, shifting their bodies to press her back against the bed. She knew he hated when she said such things, but she also (somehow) knew it also made him love her even more. _

_He'd act as if he was simply distracting her from her line of questioning, of course, slipping his length inside her to drag all her attention and pleasure toward that aching spot between her legs, but she somehow knew – has always known, really – the truth: he was actually trying to distract himself (again hiding himself from the light)._

"Martha?" he says, his voice low and gravelly as he stirs from his sleep.

"Yes?" she responds, her fingers caressing his skin with more purpose now.

"What are you doing?"

"Exploring the universe."

Soon her hand is near the thatch of thick dark hair at the apex of his thighs. His cock lies flaccid there, but soon begins to twitch and harden as her touch nears, rising up to greet her caress.

"Always studying me, Martha. You know, it _is _rather unnerving sometimes," he says, his words quickly followed by a sharp intake of breath as she wraps her fingers around his cock.

"All in the name of scientific research, of course," she teases, squeezing the head of his cock and smirking at him as his hips rise to buck against her palm, one of the rare moments between them where he seems so human after all. "Besides, it's not as if you're any different."

"Fair point," he murmurs, slipping a hand down the expanse of her back, over the curve of her buttocks, to finally settle between her legs from behind. "I quite like to explore the universe myself."

He pushes a finger inside her and she gasps.

The Doctor soon begins flicking another long slender finger against her clit and she balances herself precariously on her knees from her perch beside him, so as to not fall forward onto him. He's said before that he likes to topple her, shake up the balance between them, take control, but this morning she is more focused on her hand moving on him, and that focus is strengthening her resolve to defy him.

His body has yielded many secrets to her in the short weeks since they've become lovers, but it still holds one small secret back – she has never witnessed his climax, at least when he is not buried inside her, that is.

(And yet, somehow this simple thing, this simple desired observation, is overwhelming her now with the greatest intrigue.)

She can tell he is using his caresses to try to urge her body toward him now – still, as always, unable to just plainly _speak _his desires aloud – but she holds fast, her weight resting against the backs of her thighs to steady herself.

"Inside," he finally whimpers after a few long moments, his eyes fluttering closed as a long and loud groan escapes his lips.

"Not just yet."

"Need," he grits his teeth now, his hips now shifting harder and faster against her grasp and he growls, "Inside. Now."

She must admit she is a bit amused that his rare attempt at expressing his needs verbally is manifesting as a communication of only broken utterances – especially for such a wordsmith – but she keeps on as she was, still determined, still fixated, moving her fist faster and faster against his hard length, as he works his fingers quickly against her.

"Not just now," she says in the best soothing tone she can conjure, a tone she hopes is not punctuated too much by her own sighs and moans. "I want to watch. I want to see you."

His eyes open quickly and wide, and he is looking at her with an expression that almost looks like fear. "Don't…understand," he manages, his free hand reaching up to grip the pillow tightly.

"Come for me, Doctor. I want to see you."

He looks pleadingly at her for a long moment, and it seems as if time has suddenly slowed and stretched around them, but then he soon shuts his eyes again and time speeds up, spinning quickly around them now – turning and turning and turning, faster and faster, as if it was linked to each and every gasp and grunt that falls from his lips.

She wonders a bit at the flash of fear she'd seen in his eyes, wonders if perhaps what she is asking for is some great secret (of the universe) she dare not witness. Still, as she looks down at him with his eyes pressed tightly closed and his body moving against her caresses, she sees that – no matter what his reservations might be – he has given this moment to her as a gift.

She soon begins to feel a bit dizzy, his caresses of her body coupled with the chaos of time swirling around them is almost too heady, too much, but his cries are now growing in intensity and volume, and they seem to act as an anchor for her in the storm around them.

She hears a sudden loud groan from him and then her name sweetly on his lips as if a song, the sound of it filling the room. She watches as threads of thick white emerge from him in release, covering her hand and his belly with cold droplets of his essence. Power and life - all on her skin, ancient and overwhelming. She wants to know it, to taste it. She brings her fingers to her lips so that she can attempt to analyze its nature, its components, and perhaps, maybe even understand _time itself_.

She is no longer paying attention to his own touch, instead suckling her fingers as she watches his other hand move his fingertips to slowly spread his seed along his belly – pressing white against white. She is enraptured with him, her own quest for knowledge and love of analysis overtaking her completely, intoxicating her, until her own climax unexpectedly jolts through her body and she shudders against him.

"Always studying me," he whispers as she finally relents and submits to him, her body slumping forward, bonelessly curling over his. "Perhaps some day you can enlighten me with your findings."

He begins to stroke her hair, softly humming a tune that feels so ancient that it stirs something _so deep_ within her and both soothes and frightens her. She finally lets her exhaustion take her, though, letting the spell of sleep slowly take over her body inch by inch, but just as her final thoughts begin to slip away, she feels his eyes on her, burning into her, analyzing her just as she had him, and she wonders in that final moment what he has learned from her as well.


End file.
